Belfast Confidential

by Bateman, Colin

  I smiled. I clasped my hands and put on my boss look. 'Well, to be strictly accurate, you're not anything. You were all on freelance contracts so I'm reinterviewing you all for your jobs. I'm pleased to say you've come through it with no colours at all.'

  He said, 'What?'

  I said, 'Your enthusiasm isn't exactly catching. Brian, I'm sure you're very good at what you do, but if you're going to be a real misery guts, then maybe we'd be better off without you.' He sat there. I stood by the window and looked across. Mouse, to all intents and purposes, had died in there. What was it, a firebomb? Or did someone tie him up and then torch the place? Was he overcome by fumes, or did he scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream . . .

  'We could do a scaled-down version of the Power List,' said Brian.

  'No, we do it properly.'

  'We haven't the time. We need to use those resources to make sure—'

  'I think we're in danger of going over familiar territory here, Brian.'

  He stood up suddenly. When I turned at the scrape of his chair I saw that his sallow complexion had reddened somewhat. It wasn't exactly Custer's Last Stand, but he'd decided to make his point. 'I was next in line,' he said. 'I should be in charge.'

  'Ah,' I said.

  'I know everything about Belfast Confidential and you know bugger all.'

  'It's the truth,' I said.

  'You know,' he continued, 'I heard you were an arsehole.'

  'Yes, it's on my CV.'

  'And you're fucking mental if you think you can turn this round.'

  'If you say so.'

  'You haven't the experience, you haven't the connections, from what I hear you're a fuckin' dipso anyway. What the fuck makes you think you can just walk in here and throw your weight around?'

  'The fact that I own the place. Or half of it. Which is a half more than you.'

  'Yeah, right. You are a fucking arsehole, Starkey, and if you think you're in charge you're a fucking bigger fool than I thought you were. You're the boss? You're the owner? You've got it all in writing, have you?'

  'That's nothing to do with you, Brian.'

  'I knew it. You fucking clown. The fucking Black Widow will suck you up and spit you out the way she did with Mouse. So fuck you.'

  He walked out then, leaving the door open, and thundered down the stairs. I thought about getting down on my knees and begging him to stay, but something stopped me. I put my feet up on my desk and thought about what he'd said. He probably had a point about May Li. In the words of someone more famous than me, a verbal contract isn't worth the paper it's written on. But this wasn't Hollywood, and May Li was my mate's wife. She had a beautiful smile to go with all her other beautiful bits and she'd given me no reason at all to mistrust her. She'd made me rich, powerful, and had also kissed me on the cheek, any one of which was enough to earn my eternal gratitude and trust. Or at least a few hours for me to wallow in it.

  13

  Brian Kerr left, and took two of the four reporters who'd turned up, a designer and three of the advertising staff with him. They stopped short of standing across the road with a big banner saying Wanker! on it, but I was prepared to encounter the sentiment in the air as I walked through the office downstairs. But those few who remained didn't seem perturbed in the least. Most of them weren't long out of their teens, and Belfast Confidential was their first job. It was a cool, trendy, exciting, cutting-edge kind of a place to work, and in their eyes Mouse had been all of those things too, and Brian Kerr none. They were used to being underpaid and badly exploited and they weren't going to let a little fire put them off, or the fact that their new boss didn't know his arse from his elbow.

  I said I appreciated them staying, and they said they'd nowhere else to go. I said we could be a great little team and they said, 'Like Man United, or Linfield?' I said Linfield for now, but I had high hopes. One of the reporters was called Patrick O'Hare, the other Stephen Fagin. I talked to them together for five minutes. They were keen in a way I hadn't been in decades. At the end of it I said, 'I'm making you joint Deputy Editors. You can split Brian's wages between you.'

  'But we've never deputy-edited anything.'

  'Well, I'll teach you everything I know. Put the magazine together any way you can. You have complete artistic freedom, and try not to fight. There, that's everything I know.'

  They looked at each other, a little bit shocked, a big bit excited.

  'You're serious?' Pat asked.

  I nodded.

  'Seriously?' asked Stephen.

  'Lads, with great power comes great irresponsibility. I'm throwing you in the deep end, but it's also your big chance to make your mark. We've got two days to put this baby together: are you up for it?'

  They exchanged the briefest of looks, then gave each other and then me high fives. I've never been given a high five in my life, but I managed it with the suave sophistication of a gum-faced pensioner at an allnight rave. Party. Disco-thing. When they'd settled down again I asked them to explain how the Power List was put together.

  'Well,' said Stephen, 'we sit down about six months before the publication date and go through last year's list and weed out anyone who's died or gone bust or been arrested for child abuse or generally fallen from favour . . .'

  'And then we talk about any potential new entries,' said Pat. 'There's usually five or six – it's a pretty small country and not that much changes, so mostly it's a question of updating last year's entries.'

  I nodded from one to the other. 'And were there any complaints about last year's list? I mean, serious complaints – threats, or legal action?'

  'Well, you get the odd one complaining about their position in the Top Fifty, saying that we've exaggerated or underestimated their wealth or influence, but no, nothing serious. You didn't hear of anything, Pat?'

  Pat shook his head.

  'So as a starting point,' I suggested, 'we could guess that whoever torched the office might be someone who heard they were about to be included and didn't fancy it.'

  They exchanged glances again, then nodded.

  'Okay, so get me a list of the new guys and then meet me upstairs in ten minutes.'

  'That's about all we'll have – names,' said Stephen. 'Mouse liked to deal with the new ones himself. It was his thing, you know? He liked to go and look them in the eye. He said he could always tell a good 'un from a bad 'un. His words.'

  I left them to it. I spoke to the remaining advertising guys, and they seemed pretty upbeat. They never had much problem selling space; the interest in Mouse's murder alone would get us through the next few issues, with the Power List issue already shaping up to be the biggest ever. 'No disrespect intended,' said Alan Wells, the most senior of them, 'but there's nothing like a murder to push sales up.'

  'If I murdered you, would it push sales up?' I asked.

  'Well no, you'd really want someone with some kind of a life, or personality. And a job,' he added meekly.

  Point made. When I went back upstairs Mary Brady, the receptionist who also doubled as Mouse's secretary, was waiting for me. She was considerably older than the remaining staff; she looked to be in her late fifties at least. Her hair was dyed a dirty blonde and she wore slacks and trainers and was using my can of Diet Coke as an ashtray.

  I said, 'Mouse spoke highly of you,' as I took my seat. It was a lie, but I couldn't afford to lose any more staff.

  'He did?'

  'He did.'

  'But he always shouted at me.'

  'He just had a loud voice.'

  'No, he shouted at me.'

  'He shouted at everyone.'

  'No, mostly just me.'

  'Why was that, Mary?'

  'He said I reminded him of his wife. His first wife. That's no reason to shout at anyone.'

  'Well, you'd need to meet her.'

  She smiled at that. 'I only came in to pick up my wages. I thought working here would be fun, and I suppose it was, but I lost my husband and my son to the Troubles, and I've had
my fill of all that crap, so I don't need to be working somewhere it's going to happen again. Life's too short. Is it going to happen again?'

  I took a deep breath. 'I wish I could guarantee it won't, Mary. But I can't.'

  'He never spoke highly of me, did he?'

  'No. To tell you the truth, he never mentioned you.'

  'Everything I read in the paper since he died makes him out like some kind of saint, but he wasn't.'

  'No, he wasn't.'

  'He was arrogant and impatient and he thought he could call me any time of the day or night to fix him up with this or that. And to tell you the truth, when I heard he was gone my first thought was, Well, at least he's not going to shout at me any more. Isn't that terrible?'

  'Well, yes and no.'

  She put her cigarette out in my can. 'And he wouldn't let me smoke in the office. He made me go and stand outside, in the rain and snow.'

  'I don't mind if you smoke.'

  'Seriously? I'm forty a day, unfiltered.'

  'Well, seeing as how the life expectancy of Editors around here isn't exactly fantastic, I don't see how some passive smoking is going to make much difference.'

  'You're a bit of a sweet talker, aren't you?'

  'You should get out more.'

  She smiled and lit another one. When she'd taken a long drag she said, 'You don't remember me, do you?'

  'I saw you downstairs.'

  'I mean, from years ago.'

  I gave her a long look. I shook my head slowly. 'I'm sorry, but if we have a love child somewhere, I can backdate the payments.'

  'When my son died, you came around looking for an interview.'

  'Oh.'

  'You were very nice and you were very sweet, and I remembered that, because not all of them were. And the piece you wrote was sympathetic, and it was accurate, and I appreciated that. So I remembered your name and I used to read your columns and you were very funny and then you seemed to get into lots of trouble and I haven't seen your name in years, and now here we are. It's a funny old world, isn't it?'

  I had to agree. Funny, or tragic. It's a fine line.

  'You'll stay, won't you, Mary?'

  'I'll stay, if you don't shout and you let me smoke.'

  I put my hand out, and we shook on it.

  'So what do you want me to do first?'

  'I DON'T GIVE A FUCK!' I exploded, and it took her five minutes to understand that I was only joking; she was nearly away down the stairs to join the rest of the rats. But she calmed down and then she saw the funny side of it, kind of. I promised her a pay rise. When she asked again what she could really do, she kind of tensed before my response, but I'd learned my lesson. I asked her quietly if she still had access to Mouse's appointments book, and she said yes, she carried it with her everywhere because he really did call her at all hours of the day and night. So I asked her to get that, and then to track down Mouse's office and mobile phone records so we could put together a picture of his last few days to see if that would yield any clues. She said the police already had those, but that she could probably get copies.

  Pat and Stephen appeared in the doorway, and Mary bustled away, all business. Pat took her seat, and Stephen stood behind him, leaning on the back of it.

  'Well?' I said.

  Pat handed over a single sheet of paper. There were six names written on it, with two or three lines of detail beside each one. I recognised four of them. I took a pen from my jacket and added a seventh. I turned the page round so that they could read it.

  'May Li?' Pat said incredulously.

  I nodded. 'Belfast Confidential is the most influential publication in Belfast and it's worth millions. She's the new owner because her husband got burned to death by person or persons unknown. I think that makes her a perfect entry for the Power List. And add to that the fact that we know bugger-all about her. Besides, I find it's always worthwhile knowing exactly who you're working for.'

  'I understand your reasoning,' said Stephen, 'but do you think it's wise?'

  I took a deep breath. 'Stephen, son, do you think that wisdom has ever played a significant part in my life?'

  He looked at me for a long time, then he slowly shook his head.

  14

  A short while later Mary buzzed up that there were two police officers wanting to see me. I said, 'Is there a back way out?' jokingly, without realising she had me on the speakerphone, and judging by their faces when they came through the door they didn't seem to find it very funny. Or perhaps they didn't find anything very funny, given the nature of their work. Maybe with the cessation of the Troubles they'd expected to be able to put their feet up for a while, but it hadn't exactly turned out that way. There were a lot of bored ex-terrorists looking for kicks, and now that the war was over the thousands of ordinary decent criminals who'd kept their heads down for years felt it was safe to come back out and steal things.

  I have no idea if they mismatch cops into partnerships the way they do on TV, but these two seemed to fit the bill. One was mid-forties, grey over the ears, wearing a smart sports jacket and slacks, thick across the shoulders and barrel-chested. He looked like he worked out. He introduced himself as Detective Sergeant Eric Mayne. The other, perhaps around thirty, was tall and thin; his face was dominated by a large hooked nose, the kind of nose that might bestow gravitas upon him in his later years, but which had probably made his teenage years a misery. He was Detective Inspector Brian Mooney. They sat down and nodded politely. They didn't show me their ID, but they didn't arrest me either, so we compromised on coolly appraising each other across my desk.

  'We're investigating the murder of Mark McBride.' It was Mooney, he was younger but he was also senior. Fast-tracking. Probably went to college, whereas Mayne had come up the hard way. Mayne probably resented the fact that he was into middle age and Mooney was earning twice his wages and ordering him about, snotty-nosed kid. You could make up all kinds of shit just looking at people.

  'Who?' I responded, and then it struck me. 'Sorry. Mouse. Mark McBride. It's so long since I called him that.'

  'You knew him before?'

  'Oh yes, we're old mates.'

  'We've spoken to most of your staff over the past few days,' said Mayne.

  'That's more than I can say.' I laughed.

  'This isn't a laughing matter,' said Mayne.

  'I appreciate that.' I clasped my hands together and tried to settle down. Cops made me nervous. It wasn't that long since I'd spent the night in one of their bed and breakfasts. 'How can I help you?'

  Mooney pulled his chair forward slightly. 'This is more in the way of a courtesy visit, just to update you on the investigation and to ask you nicely not to . . . well, interfere.'

  'Interfere?'

  'Stick your nose in where it's not wanted.' It was Mayne. 'This is a murder enquiry, we don't want your pack of teenagers sticking their oars in and fucking things up. We spend half our lives clearing up the mess you lot create.'

  I cleared my throat. 'Forgive me, gentlemen, I'm new to this, but it was my understanding that Belfast Confidential quite often unmasks the criminals and then you get to arrest them.'

  'Bollocks,' Mayne snapped. 'You stir up shit and we have to deal with the fallout.'

  'Well,' I said, trying my best to act like an Editor, 'perhaps we should agree to differ. Or agree to disagree. Or—'

  Mayne cut in with, 'You think you're a real funny cunt, don't you?' He wasn't getting my statesman act at all.

  'Well, a cunt's a useful thing.'

  Mooney leaned forward. 'The point is, Mr Starkey, that we're aware of what you all do around here, and think it might well have been a contributing factor to the death of Mr McBride. As we don't want a repeat performance, we're asking that you, and this publication, desist from mounting any kind of an investigation into your late Editor's murder. We appreciate that you may still feel obliged to do it, but this is a small town, Mr Starkey, and we don't want to be trampling all over each other, perhaps scaring off potential wit
nesses or inadvertently contaminating evidence.'

  'Well, perhaps we could work together.'

  Mayne snorted.

  Mooney said, 'I don't think so.'

  'Well then,' I said.

  'So you'll steer clear?'

  I looked at him and said, 'Where are you now? In the investigation.'

  'It's early days.'

  'Do you have any leads?'

  'We're following several lines of enquiry.'

  'When I made my statement, I said someone else answered Mouse's mobile when I called him: has anyone followed that up?'

  'It's beyond our remit to disclose that.'

  'Did he have any other injuries besides the burns?'

  'I'm not at liberty to discuss that either.'

  'Has anyone claimed responsibility?'

  'Those days are gone.'

  'Did you lift CCTV footage from the cameras around the Square?'

  'Most of them weren't functioning. But we've some.'

  'And?'

  'It's too early to say.'

  'Did you talk to the hookers outside? Did they see anyone come or go?'

  'I can't discuss that.'

  I sat back. 'Well, thanks for updating me. When does the courtesy bit start?'

  'It's the funny cunt again,' said Mayne.

  'Do you talk like that in front of your mother?' I asked.

  'No, I talk like that in front of yours, just before I fuck her.'

  Even Mooney looked a bit taken aback by that one. 'Detective, please,' he said. 'Settle yourself. Here, for God's sake,' and he pushed my can of Diet Coke towards him.

  Mayne gave me a hard look, then lifted the can and took a long drink. Then he gagged and spat and wheezed and doubled over and near-choked and hurled the can across the room.

  'What the fuck, what the fuck . . .' he coughed.

  'My secretary has been using that as an ash tray.'

  'You fucker, you fucking fucker,' Mayne wheezed, his face pink and contorted, his finger angrily jabbing out towards me.

  Mooney tried to soothe him – 'It was an accident – an accident.' – and patted his back.

  'Do you want me to get you a fresh one?' I asked. 'There's cold ones down in the—'